


"I Went for a Walk"

by TheLiteralVoid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Drunk Jim, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Season/Series 04 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9394736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLiteralVoid/pseuds/TheLiteralVoid
Summary: Sherlock wakes to find a drunk Jim rummaging through the kitchen.One-shot; Kindof Sheriarty/Jimlock at the end. It's supposed to be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *deep breath* hhhey, so I haven't posted here before, and I haven't posted anywhere since 2014, so I'm pretty rusty. Not to mention I haven't written Sher's POV before, so I'm sorry if he's OOC. I'd love requests and feedback.

Sherlock hadn’t really meant to fall asleep; it had just seemed to happen. One moment, he was sitting back on his bed with his laptop rested on his lap, checking the comments on John’s blog. It wasn’t something he did much, but he did occasionally like the ego boost. Though, seeing as he hadn’t slept in a good while, it wasn’t surprising he’d fallen asleep.  
That sleep didn’t last for very long.  
At exactly 4:13 am—he’d made note of the time and threw it into the Mindpalace—he heard noise coming from the kitchen, like someone was rummaging through their drawers and cabinets.   
He took caution in not making any noise himself as he stood; grabbing the gun kept taped to the underside of his nightstand, and opened his door. He peered out into the small hallway, not yet seeing anyone. He stepped out into the hall, each footstep light and silent as he made his way into the kitchen.   
A man about John’s height- perhaps a few inches taller- was combing through their cabinets, seemingly in search of a teacup that suited him. His hair was disheveled in a way that suggested he’d been out for most of the night—there were still parts laying down, coated in styling gel, while other parts were mussed up. His clothing wasn’t anything noteworthy; just regular old things anyone would throw on. That was one of the things that threw Sherlock off when the man turned around.  
James Moriarty usually wore suits.  
Sherlock had been one-hundred-percent certain that Moriarty was dead. Yet here he was, obviously drunk and rummaging through his own kitchen.  
The first expression to cross Jim’s face was confusion, quickly followed by the closest the psychopath could get to guilt. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered, as if there was any need to. John wasn’t yet fully moved back in, and Sherlock was the only one there to hear him.   
Sherlock had so many questions buzzing through his mind, but he knew it was likely he wouldn’t get many of them answered. How did a supposedly dead man break into 221B and why was he taking things from their kitchen? How was he alive? Why was he wearing a hoodie? Observations flashed by and were stored away in the room saved for Moriarty Facts.  
Meanwhile, Jim had decided he couldn’t be troubled to figure out which teacup most represented his inner being, so he closed the cabinet and went to the fridge in hopes of literally anything consumable. Normally, he had a very refined palette, but tonight he was plastered and having a series of existential crises, so it didn’t matter.  
Before he made it to the refrigerator, however, Sherlock grabbed his arm. “What are you doing here?” His voice was firm, but still quiet. He knew he didn’t have to be, but the atmosphere made it seem like the best volume.  
“Honestly,” Jim replied, his voice nearly sounding like a whine, “Can’t you just deduce that?” He pulled his arm away and opened the fridge, unfazed by the many body parts still kept there. “I was drinking, and I went for a walk. Ended up outside your apartment, so I let myself in,” he explained, then commented, “You’re almost out of milk…”  
“You were just out for a stroll,” Sherlock made a gesture here, face showing mild confusion, “And nobody noticed a thing?”  
“It’s four in the morning, Sherlock.”  
“This can’t have been the first time you’ve done it though,” the detective retorted, “You don’t just play dead for five years and then decide to just go out for a walk. How has nobody picked up on you?”  
“I don’t know,” Jim sighed impatiently, “Be a dear and direct me to where you keep the biscuits.”  
Sherlock did no such thing. Gears were still turning in his head.  
“By the way, I watched your little game with Eurus,” the criminal commented, shutting the fridge and leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. “Very entertaining, though I did hope one of you Holmes children would die in the end.” He shrugged, as though this was something people discussed in every day conversation. Well, he probably did.  
Jim made his way into the sitting room and practically collapsed in his dramatic manor onto the couch. Sherlock followed him, standing a good few feet away.  
“Yes, yes, very good; when are you leaving?” Sherlock had very little patience for those who weren’t useful to him. Now that he knew that Moriarty was alive, it couldn’t be too hard to track him down. And judging by the comment about going on a walk, he had to be located fairly locally. If he couldn’t get any worthwhile answers from a drunken Jim, he’d make sure to get them from a Sober Jim.  
Jim took a long breath in. “I don’t know~”   
“Make it soon,” Sherlock nearly snapped. “I don’t want Mrs. Hudson having a heart attack when she comes up to make tea.” He turned around to go back to his room, finding no reason to stick around.  
“Sherly~” Jim’s tone was playful, but still very much like a whine. “Come back here.”  
“Why?” Sherlock sounded very unamused. In fact, he mostly wasn’t. But it was the part of him that knew James Moriarty, knew he was always in it for a game, that made him turn around.  
“Becaaauussee~” Jim sing-songed, “I’m boooored~” He sat up and crossed his arms, looking quite like a grumpy child.  
Something stirred within Sherlock. Moriarty seemed to have a goal. A very specific one. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it was. He walked over to the couch anyways and sat when Jim prompted him to.  
Jim sat in silence, looking at Sherlock, seemingly observing every bit of him. They both stayed, a bit awkwardly in that silence until Jim did something that surprised the other: He placed his hand on Sherlock’s.  
“Sherlock..?” Jim’s voice was a new kind of quiet. It was… soft, in a way. Sherlock figured it was only because of the alcohol that he sounded this way. “How much did you miss me?”  
Sherlock nearly laughed at this. He knew he couldn’t answer, though. While it was absurd to say one missed Jim Moriarty, he couldn’t deny life had been much more interesting with him around to keep Sherlock on his toes. The criminal took the silence as, ‘Too much to say.’   
There was another prolonged silence until Jim leaned on Sherlock, head resting on the other’s shoulder. This prompted a “What are you doing?” from the detective.  
“Resting,” Jim replied simply.  
Sherlock’s body was tense. He wasn’t very comfortable with physical contact, especially with someone whom he’d considered an enemy. But… he couldn’t seem to make himself get up. It didn’t really seem like an option for some reason. So he didn’t move.  
After some time had passed, Sherlock noted that Jim’s breathing had slowed and he’d relaxed farther. He’d fallen asleep. Again, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to move. He questioned this for a while before giving up. He could ask all the questions he wanted in the morning.


End file.
